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cinnamon7girl7 · 8 days ago

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"EVERYTHING YOU ARE FINDS ME"

The buzzing of the gym lights was almost constant, an irregular flickering that came and went as if the building itself were breathing with difficulty. It had been like that since you started your first year, and although some girls still got headaches from it, you had already learned to ignore it. It was part of the setting, like the smell of waxed wood or the echo of footsteps when someone ran by in a hurry. That day, however, you couldn’t focus on any of it.

Your sneakers slid over the polished floor as you walked back and forth, as if moving helped ease the anxiety tightening your chest. You were wearing the practice version of the cheerleading team uniform: a navy-blue skirt with white lines, a simple cotton top with the logo embroidered in the center, and a white wristband with your name hand-stitched on it — a gift from your teammates the day you joined the team. You gripped that band as if it could give you courage.

—And the new captain of the cheerleading team is…

Your heart stopped for a second. You weren’t breathing. The words came like an echo, floating above the tension in the other girls.

—You!

The explosion of screams and applause was immediate when the coach pointed at you. They surrounded you in a group hug, between jumps, laughter, and poorly disguised tears. Your name echoed in the air, on your teammates’ lips, in the coach’s voice, and through the farthest hallways of the school. It was real. After so much effort, after months of late rehearsals, falls, laughter, and sweat... you had earned it.

From that day on, something changed. The first-year students looked at you with shining eyes when you crossed the courtyard. The second-years followed you on social media and commented on your videos. Even the boys on the basketball team, who barely noticed you before, now found excuses to bump into you in the halls or give you a smile as you passed.

But you were still you. You still woke up early to rehearse routines. You still worried about your grades. You still felt that constant pressure to prove you were more than just a pretty face. And it was in the middle of that routine —in the balance between shining and not falling— that you saw him for the first time.

It was an ordinary Thursday. The sky was gray, the air carried that scent of wet earth that hinted at sudden rain, and you were late, as usual, for physics class. You ran down the third-floor hallway, the one with the labs, with your half-closed folder in one hand, a water bottle hanging from your arm, and your phone vibrating nonstop in your pocket.

You turned the corner without looking and bumped into someone.

—Ah! Sorry, sorry, I…

Your papers flew out, and you barely managed to catch your folder before it hit the floor. A calm, low voice rose in front of you, unhurried:

—It’s my fault. I was walking while reading.

You stopped instantly.

He was already crouched down, carefully picking up each sheet. His movements were slow, meticulous, as if he knew the exact order of your folder. He had white hair, slightly messy, and large glasses that hid half his face. He wore a gray cotton sweater over his uniform, with a small ink stain on the left sleeve. He seemed from another world, one far from all the noise of the school.

He handed you the papers, and accidentally, your fingers brushed his. Cold. Slightly rough. You lifted your gaze, trying to find his eyes, but the glare from his glasses made it difficult. Still… there was something.

You didn’t know what it was. But you felt it.

—Thanks —you said finally, a bit softer.

He nodded without saying anything more and walked away with the same calmness with which he had appeared.

And you… you stayed still, watching his figure fade between the lockers, wondering why, suddenly, your heart was beating so fast.

You found out his name a few days later. Gojo Satoru. For some, the unbearable nerd. For others, a silent genius. He had the best GPA of the year, supposedly knew more than the teachers —or so they said— and was almost always alone. Not because no one talked to him… but because he didn’t seem to need anyone.

It was rare to see him in the hallways. He only moved between the library and a bench in the courtyard, always in the shade. No one knew much about him, but no one bothered asking either. He was one of those guys who didn’t seem to want to belong anywhere.

And yet, days later, fate —or maybe karma— crossed your path with his again, because… well.

Your physics grades started to drop.

And it didn’t happen all at once, no. It was slow. Like a tiny crack spreading along the wall after a storm. The first time was on a test that seemed easy. The second, during a group project where you got lost between formulas and notations. By the third stumble, it was no longer a coincidence: it was a pattern. Your answers were incomplete, your understanding was hazy, and no matter how much you wanted to deny it, something was slipping through your fingers.

It was frustrating.

Because you were good at almost everything you set your mind to. Because you'd never had to stay up late, elbows on the desk, fighting with wrinkled papers and numbers that didn’t seem to make sense. Because you knew how to lead an entire team, you knew how to encourage others, you knew how to keep your grades up… and now, suddenly, all of that was trembling because of a single subject.

The teacher noticed quickly.

He was an older man, with glasses that always slipped down to the tip of his nose and a tone of voice that made even the words “friction force” sound boring. But he was fair and demanding.

And one afternoon, after handing you back a test with a big red mark at the bottom, he called you over with a gesture of his hand.

—I don’t like seeing my students give up —he said, without judgment—. And you’re not one to give up.

You didn’t know what to say.

—So I assigned you a tutor.

You frowned.

—A tutor?

—Yes. Someone who can explain things to you calmly. Who speaks your language. —He wrote something in your notebook, his handwriting firm—. Gojo Satoru. Third year. The best I’ve got. Make the most of him.

And just like that, without giving you much time to complain, your sessions with him began.

The first time you saw him sitting across from you at a table in the library, you almost didn’t recognize him. He had swapped the gray sweater for a zip-up jacket that looked like it had come from the back of a forgotten closet, and he had headphones hanging from his neck. His hair was even messier than it had been in the hallway, and he held a notebook in his hands that he flipped through without really looking at.

When you sat down, he only looked up for a moment. He nodded. Then went back to his notebook.

—Hi—you said, trying to sound casual.

—Hello—he replied, nothing more.

And then, silence.

An awkward silence, the kind that feels too long even if only ten seconds have passed.

He was the first to speak.

—What part are you getting lost in?

There was no sarcasm in his tone. No judgment. Just a practical, straightforward curiosity.

—I don’t know… almost everything —you admitted, lowering your gaze—. I get confused when exercises mix force with angles and… well, when you have to use two formulas at the same time… I freeze.

Satoru nodded once. He closed his notebook. Pulled out a pencil and a fresh sheet of paper.

—Let’s start from there.

And so you did.

But it was hard.

Satoru explained things well, that much was true. But he spoke quickly, using technical terms that sounded like they’d come straight out of a college textbook. It was clear he understood perfectly what he was saying, but he didn’t know —not yet— how to translate it for someone who thought about dance moves before thinking about vectors.

You left that first session with a headache.

And yet, when the next Thursday came around, you went back.

The second time, he brought something new.

When you arrived, he was already there. But this time, instead of his notebook, he had a sketchpad open in front of him.

—Look —he said, without preamble—. I know last class was a little… dry. So I tried to make it more visual.

You leaned in, curious.

And there they were: vectors drawn like fists, trajectories like anime punches, little characters flying through the air with dramatic expressions.

—Imagine this vector is a punch —he said, scratching the back of his neck—. Like in One Piece. The momentum is the first hit, and the acceleration… that’s when the character goes flying, yeah?

You said it without meaning to.

A quiet laugh. A real one.

He turned red immediately.

—Is this really dumb?

—No. It’s great.

And it was.

Not just because of the example, but because for the first time, you felt like someone was truly trying to speak your language.

Since then, your tutoring sessions became routine… but comfortable. Warm.

He started waiting for you five minutes early, always at the same table, always with his notebook ready. And every time, he brought something new: an example based on Digimon, an explanation using Pokémon cards, or even an improvised model made of pens and erasers.

—This is a collision —he’d say, crashing two erasers together.

—That looks more like a car accident —you’d tease.

And though he sometimes turned red, he laughed too.

You began staying longer than necessary. At first, with excuses: “I didn’t quite get that last part,” “Can you repeat that?” “I think I forgot how to calculate work.”

But after a while… you didn’t even pretend.

You just wanted to be there.

And he… started bringing two coffees. One with milk and sugar, just the way you liked it.

—In case you wanted one —he’d say, placing it beside you without looking.

You accepted it silently. Smiling. And he’d lower his head, but his ears would turn red.

Since you started having tutoring sessions with Satoru on Thursday afternoons, something in the atmosphere around you began to shift. It didn’t happen all at once, but it was a subtle change —a current that slowly started to become more noticeable.

At first, no one said anything out loud. But the whispers multiplied. The glances lingered, and little comments began to surface almost unintentionally —in passing conversations, through quiet giggles, or barely audible murmurs.

One afternoon, as you were gathering your things after cheer practice, one of your teammates approached you with a half-curious, half-teasing smile.

—You're leaving early again today, huh? —she asked, leaning in so only you could hear.

You weren’t sure if it was reproach or genuine curiosity, so you answered calmly.

—Yeah, I have tutoring with Satoru. I’m trying to catch up in physics.

Her smile grew a little wider, almost a mix of surprise and amusement.

—With Gojo? The guy who's always alone, the one who barely talks? You're really hanging out with him?

You shook your head, trying to make it clear there was nothing more than a study relationship.

—He's just my tutor. It's nothing.

But the girl didn’t seem convinced. And she wasn’t the only one noticing.

From that moment on, more and more classmates began to say the same thing. Not just your fellow cheerleaders, but also the guys from the basketball team —the ones who used to greet you with quick smiles— now gave you looks that tried to be teasing.

—Hey, so you're the one doing tutoring with Gojo? —one of the players asked during a break, flashing a crooked grin with a tone meant to be playful but that made you feel a little uncomfortable.

—Yeah —you answered, shrugging.

—Seriously? Isn't he kind of weird? —another one added, chuckling under his breath.

Sometimes, in the hallways, you heard people calling you “the captain who studies with the nerd,” or “the one who’s gonna lose her status.” Those words stung, even though you tried not to show it.

It wasn’t just that the comments bothered you. It was the feeling that something in the air had shifted. People used to smile at you easily, but now, when you passed by, some of those smiles turned away. And even though you tried to ignore it, you couldn’t help feeling how all those little voices were piling up into an echo that made you doubt.

But you, with the same calm you had stepping onto the court, answered honestly every time someone asked.

—I'm not dating him, we just study together. Satoru is smart and helps me, that's all.

And even though some classmates gave you looks of disbelief, others stayed silent, and you took those moments to think that maybe people just needed time to understand.

Because deep down, you knew what you had with Satoru was different. It wasn’t just tutoring or a simple friendship. It was a little universe where you could be yourself without masks or judgments.

And that was enough to face the looks from everyone else.

Thursdays had become your refuge. Amid all the curious glances and hushed whispers, those hours with Satoru were a little world apart. There, nothing mattered but understanding formulas, sharing silences, and, little by little, feeling that something more was growing between you.

One afternoon, while you were putting away your notebooks after the session, you noticed he was nervous. He fidgeted with his fingers and played with a pencil without looking up. Then, in a low and almost rushed voice, he said:

—There’s a café in the park. I… go there often. They have free books and… um… if you want… you could come with me.

You looked at him, surprised and amused by his unusual shyness.

—Are you asking me out?

His eyes widened so much it seemed like his glasses would fall off.

—No! I mean… yes! Like… yes, but not like a date… unless you want it to be… but if not, it’s okay.

You couldn’t help but laugh, caught up in his nervousness.

—Yes, I do.

Saturday arrived, and you went.

The meeting was a charming little disaster. Satoru choked on his coffee and ended up with a stain on the tip of his nose all afternoon. He nearly knocked over a bookshelf while trying to reach a book that caught his attention, and your laughter accompanied each of his clumsy attempts. But all of that made the afternoon perfect.

You talked about books, movies, and the teachers you both silently hated. He confessed that Fridays felt endless to him, while you shared your joy for rehearsals and the weekend bustle. The conversation flowed naturally, without pretension, as if time had stopped just for you.

But that afternoon was only the beginning of something that went much further.

Because the next outing came unplanned, as if it were an extension of that first meeting.

One ordinary Wednesday, after class, you decided to go to a small, hidden bookstore, with shelves full of dust and warm lights inviting you to get lost in its aisles. You walked together among old and new books, exploring calmly. In a corner, you found a cat-shaped bookmark that made you smile instantly. You picked it up and showed it to him.

Satoru said nothing, he just carefully took the bookmark and slowly turned it between his fingers, as if holding a small treasure. At times, his eyes met yours, and without words, you shared a silent universe that seemed to say more than any conversation.

They made no plans, nor talked about what it could be, they simply enjoyed that comfortable and close presence, and as they walked through the streets, the fresh air mixed with their low laughter and silences full of meaning.

That afternoon, without the need for grand words, you learned that sometimes the most important thing is simply to be, to feel, and to let time take care of the rest.

And then came the third time.

Under the rain.

They left the café running, without umbrellas, the water hitting them as if the world wanted to stop them. Between laughter and stumbles, reality became blurry and only the two of them existed.

On impulse, you pushed him against a wall to take shelter under an awning, soaked, with clothes clinging to your bodies and glasses fogged up, you looked at each other intensely.

It was a moment that seemed to stop.

Without thinking, you leaned in and kissed him.

Satoru’s body remained still, his breath suspended, and when you opened your eyes, there he was, surprised, with an expression that made you smile.

—Did you really want to do that? —he whispered.

—Of course I did.

He didn’t know what to say, but his cheeks burned with a warmth that gave him away.

After that soaked kiss, nothing was ever the same again… although not everything changed all at once.

Neither you nor Satoru said anything about it during the following days. There was no need. He didn’t mention it and neither did you, but the air between you was different. Denser. Softer. More aware. As if every step, every word, every shared silence carried an invisible thread that tied you closer and closer together.

Thursdays continued. The tutoring sessions too. But now he brought two coffees without you having to ask. One always with more sugar than the other, because —although he never said it— he knew how you liked it. Sometimes he came with matcha cookies. Or with a clumsily folded napkin that said “you earned a break” in the corner.

You started to stay a little longer. Even after the formulas were solved. Sometimes you talked about silly things, past anecdotes, dreams, things you wanted to learn. Sometimes you just stayed silent. One writing, the other looking out the window, but still together.

One day, while he was explaining a kinematics problem with an absurd story about a penguin launched from a catapult, you simply looked at him. Not because of what he said, but how he said it. His hands moving, his forehead furrowed, his eyebrows focused, his lips forming words with such enthusiasm that it seemed he forgot you were there to learn… and not just to listen to him talk about the world.

And that’s when you knew.

What you felt wasn’t just a spark.

It was something that was staying.

The next time you went out was on a Sunday.

There was no rain that afternoon, only a clear sky and the gentle wind rustling the leaves in the park. You were sitting under a tree, he had a book in his hand that he wasn’t reading, and you were resting with your head leaning on your backpack, watching the branches move as if dancing to the rhythm of what you felt inside your chest.

Satoru took a deep breath. It was clear something was bothering him.

You already knew how to read him without words. The way he folded the book’s corners, how he tapped the ground with the tip of his shoe, or how he looked at his own fingers as if hoping they would speak for him.

—Are you okay? —you asked softly.

He nodded. It took him a few seconds to raise his voice.

—There’s something I’ve… wanted to tell you for a while.

You turned your face to look at him better, but he didn’t meet your eyes, only pressed the book against his chest as if it were a shield.

—If you wanted to —he began, his voice lower than ever—. And it’s not an obligation, nor pressure, but… if you feel it too…

You said nothing, just waited for him to finish.

—Do you… do you want to be my girlfriend?

There was a long silence, but not an uncomfortable one. It was a silence full of certainties that were already there, waiting to be spoken out loud.

You sat up, without taking your eyes off him.

—Yes —you said.

And in that moment, Satoru seemed to run out of breath.

His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something more… but didn’t know how. The only thing he managed was to look at you with a mixture of disbelief and something more tender, more fragile, more sincere than you had ever seen in him.

—I can’t believe it —he whispered, barely audible.

—What?

—That you… are crazy.

—For you —you replied—, yes.

And that was the first time you saw him truly smile. Without hiding. Without fear. Without filters.

A wide, awkward, messy… but real smile.

Since then, your relationship was a shared secret, not out of shame, nor to hide from the world, but because it was something just between the two of you, something others wouldn’t understand or that didn’t need to be explained to exist.

Satoru was still the solitary boy with thick glasses and oversized sweaters, but to you… he was so much more. He was the one who left you little notes in the margins of your notes, with complicated formulas and tiny “I love you”s written among equations.

He was the one who showed up with sweets hidden in your pencil case on the days you had exams or presentations. He was the one who memorized your choreography with his eyes closed, just to help you remember the timing with absurd physics formulas.

He was the one who hugged you awkwardly, as if he still didn’t quite know how to do it… but cared too much about doing it right. He was the one who blushed every time you brushed his hand.

And the one who, without saying it, loved you in such a pure and unguarded way that sometimes you had to hold your breath.

He didn’t choose you because of how others saw you.

He chose you for who you were when no one was watching.

And you… didn’t have to look for him either.

Because he was the one who found you.

Since that day in the park, when Satoru asked you to be his girlfriend with the most trembling voice and the most honest heart, everything changed for you. It wasn’t just about being with someone; it was about being with him.

And although it wasn’t public, noticeable, or official in the school hallways, his love was in every small gesture. In the notes he left inside your notebooks, in the coffees shared secretly, in the comfortable silences, in the walks at the end of the afternoon, holding hands only when they knew no one was watching, in the looks that lasted longer than usual, in the touch of his fingers when he handed you a sheet, in his low voice every time he said “take care” when saying goodbye.

Satoru wasn’t ready for others to know. He had spent so much time being invisible that now, when he finally felt someone truly saw him, he feared everything would break if the world looked at him all at once.

And you… you understood him.

You didn’t do it out of shame or fear, you did it out of love. Because you wanted to take care of him and because you knew he wasn’t ready yet to be part of your world — that world of spotlights, stairs, choreographies, classmates with bright eyes, and boys throwing balls who thought they could have it all.

So you didn’t push him, you didn’t post pictures, you didn’t wait for him outside his classroom, and you didn’t hug him in front of anyone. You only looked at each other when the world wasn’t watching. You only loved each other when other eyes couldn’t judge.

But eyes… they always watch.

And mouths, sooner or later, always talk.

The first rumor arrived like a whisper, one of those barely audible comments that slip through the air between conversations. You were walking down the hallway leading to the dance room, your backpack hanging from one shoulder, your hair still damp after practice. The afternoon sun filtered through the windows, casting an orange glow on the floor.

You passed by a group of students leaning against the lockers. You didn’t look at them. You didn’t say anything. But the words slipped straight into your chest.

—"Is she really dating him?" —"It must be a bet." —"Or she’s using him to pass physics."

You kept walking. One step. Then another. Pretending you hadn’t heard. Pretending you didn’t care, but you felt it, like a splinter, like a crack. Not just because of you, but because of him.

Because you knew what was behind every look you shared, every silence, or every “are you cold?” that Satoru said just with a glance. But they… they didn’t know.

And they didn’t care.

The rumor grew like fire in dry grass. No one knew for sure where it had started — maybe someone saw them leaving the park that Sunday, or it was the time Satoru wiped a drop of milk off your lip with his thumb, without thinking, right there in the café. Maybe it was just one look that was too soft at the least convenient moment.

There were no names or labels, nor direct posts. But the hints were clear. In group chats, Instagram stories, and comments overheard in passing.

—“Even goddesses get confused.” —“Did the standard go on vacation or what?” —“My aunt dated a nerd once, it was just a phase.” —“Even the popular girls don’t choose well anymore.”

The first rumors slipped through like water between fingers. Quiet, subtle, disguised as jokes and comments amid restrained laughter, but soon enough, the poison stopped hiding and began to flow shamelessly on social media, in anonymous stories and carefully edited videos.

It all started with a TikTok video that didn’t mention your name, but it was obvious it referred to you since you were tagged. A scene from a Japanese romantic comedy where the popular girl “drops a level” by falling for the clumsiest boy at school, with filters distorting faces and subtitles that read: “when you have to settle for last place in the school ranking.” At first, you thought it was a coincidence, just one of many, but then came another. And another. And yet another.

The posts didn’t mention you directly, but they were bold enough to tag you. The names were disguised in wordplays, in emojis clearly referencing your cheerleader uniform, your favorite bow, Thursdays, and the park where everyone knew you had been seen with him. The filters distorted voices and faces, but the intent hit like a sharp blow to the stomach. One poorly hidden laugh after another, one supposed “joke” after another.

Sometimes they were just comments thrown into the air, in hallways, in the cafeteria, while someone glanced at you sideways.

—“Wow, the queen falling for the nerd.”

Other times they were ruthless photo compilations, edited without mercy, combined with movie scenes where the perfect girl falls for the wrong guy—but not as an homage. Not as romance, but mockery. As if your choice was so ridiculous it had to be displayed for everyone to see.

A highlighted story showed a picture of you from the last cheerleading tournament, and below, in small letters, the text read: “not even stars are safe from human error.” Another had a sarcastic poll: Is it true love or just wanting to pass physics? Later, messages mocking the “nerd in love” appeared, old photos of Satoru from freshman year where he wore huge glasses and had a lost expression, posted alongside phrases like “this is what we’ve come to, girls” or “the fantasy is over.”

The laughing emojis repeated, one after another, as if everyone agreed, as if everyone felt entitled to judge a relationship they didn’t know, about a boy they’d never approached. They used memes with biting phrases, edited images, comparisons to ridiculous anime and movie characters. All carefully disguised as comedy, as lightheartedness, as if the poison didn’t hurt when it came with a laugh.

But it hurt.

Not just him. You too.

It hurt to see your messages left on read. How your friends, who used to reply with stickers every five minutes, now just sent a dry “ok” or simply ignored you. It hurt to hear whispers during practice, when you arrived at the end of warm-up and everyone suddenly lowered their voices. It hurt to see how the boys on the team started avoiding you, saying things as they passed with a crooked smile, as if reminding you that you were no longer “untouchable.”

And above all, it hurt that no one knew the truth.

No one knew that the boy everyone called “the weirdo,” “the invisible,” “the mistake,” was the same one who taught you how to solve physics problems by drawing maps with candy. That he was the one who brought you coffee when he knew you’d had a bad rehearsal. That he was the one who remembered your favorite songs, who listened to you talk for hours without getting distracted, who looked at you as if you were the only miracle in a world he didn’t understand.

But none of that mattered to them because love, when it doesn’t fit the standards everyone imposes, becomes a scandal.

And you were tired.

For entire days, you pretended that nothing was happening. You smiled as always, raised your voice during cheer practices, danced with energy in rehearsals, and greeted everyone with the same brightness as before—but inside… inside, every step felt heavier. Every time you heard laughter behind your back, every time a notification lit up your phone screen, you feared finding another joke disguised as a comment, another cruelly edited image, another meme using his face or yours as entertainment.

And while you held up that brilliant façade, trying to protect everything you had built, you watched Satoru slowly shrink. It was almost imperceptible at first.

It started with his posture, which wasn’t as straight as it used to be. Then his gaze, which more and more avoided meeting yours in public. And then, his words. The ones that used to come out shy but steady, began to vanish.

He no longer spoke with the same excitement when explaining things, no longer shared absurd theories or strange references just to make you laugh. He only mumbled short sentences, as if he didn’t want to draw attention, as if he feared even his voice might become something to laugh at.

He didn’t say it out loud, but you knew. You knew it hurt. You knew that every comment you tried to ignore hit him just as hard, another stone on his back. And you knew that, no matter how normal he tried to act, no matter how many times he said he didn’t care what people thought… he did care. It hurt because he wasn’t used to being seen—let alone judged.

One afternoon, after class, the two of you walked together alongside the main building. It was the only path where you rarely ran into anyone anymore, a kind of secret route among the trees that bordered the track field. You walked in silence, and you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His backpack hung lower than usual, his steps were slower. His glasses were dirty, and the collar of his sweater was wrinkled. You weren’t sure if he’d slept well the night before.

You stopped.

—Satoru —you whispered.

He stopped too, but didn’t look at you. He just let the silence settle between you.

—Did someone say something to you?

It took him a few seconds to answer. And when he did, it was with a soft voice, heavy with something else.

—No... it’s just... you know how people are.

—What did they do? Who was it?

—It doesn’t matter —he replied, finally looking up at you, but with a weariness in his eyes you hadn’t seen before—. You don’t have to get involved because of me.

What you didn’t know was that, while you tried to believe him every time he said “it doesn’t matter,” a lot of things were happening—and they were tearing him apart inside.

P.E. class felt different that day. Not because the teacher changed the routine, or because it was warmer than usual. It was different because, the moment Satoru stepped onto the court, there were eyes on him.

At first, they were subtle.

Then, not so much.

The captains of the basketball team, with their sweaty shirts and inflated egos, started throwing out comments that weren’t aimed at anyone in particular… but had one very clear target.

—"Hey, anyone know if the princess is coming today with her pet?" —"Doubt it. She only shows up for practice." —"Think she lets him breathe on his own?"

The laughter came fast. And even though Satoru tried to ignore it, he lowered his gaze, pretended to look through his folded notebook, and walked off to his usual corner—the one where he always read while the others ran.

That time, he couldn't finish his chapter.

One of the boys from the soccer team kicked the ball straight at him.

—Oops! My bad. You okay, Queen’s boyfriend?

Satoru just nodded, not looking at anyone, as he adjusted his crooked glasses.

When class ended, everyone headed to the locker room like always. But he, who usually waited until the place was empty, made a mistake. Maybe he wanted to leave quickly. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe he just wanted to escape.

He walked in while the place was still packed with sweaty teenagers, all ready to make his life miserable just for fun.

The sound of showers filled the room. Towels hung in a mess, and steam fogged up the mirrors. Satoru went straight to his locker, pulled out clean clothes, set his glasses on the metal shelf, and stepped into one of the open showers. The warm water ran down his shoulders.

For a moment… he thought he’d finally get some peace.

—Look who joined us!

The voice rang out, loud and mocking.

—What are you doing here, Gojo? Came to compare sizes?

—Didn’t know nerds knew how to use a shower.

—Do you really think she wants to be with you? What do you even give her, besides equations?

The laughter filled the steamy space. One threw a wet towel at him. Another squirted shampoo into his face. Satoru, with his eyes shut, tried not to move. Not to react. Not to look. Just turned toward the wall and let the water keep falling.

—She must have a thing for losers.

—Or maybe she’s getting paid to pretend.

—Or are you the one paying her? Skipping lunch to buy her makeup?

The last laugh was the cruelest.

—You can’t hold on to her, Gojo. Not physically, not emotionally. She’ll get tired of you. Everyone knows it. You're the only one who doesn’t.

Satoru stayed right there.

Saying nothing.

Not moving.

Just letting the water hide his face.

And when they left, one of them kicked his clothes to the floor before walking out.

Getting dressed was harder with trembling hands.

The minutes passed and you kept waiting for him outside the lab.

Not out of habit, but because you had been looking for him all afternoon. You wanted to talk to him, to fix that strange distance that was beginning to grow between you two. You carried your things over your shoulder, a coat in your hand in case he was cold. You saw him come out.

He was soaked. Not from any shower he had chosen to take, but because someone had poured a bottle of Gatorade over him. His clothes hung loose, damp, and his hair dripped down his forehead. He was walking fast. Too fast.

—Satoru.

He didn’t respond.

—Satoru, wait.

You quickened your pace. You stood in front of him.

—What happened?

He looked down. He walked past you.

—Nothing. I just want to leave.

—No! —you said firmly—. Don’t say nothing happened when clearly something did! I know you, Satoru!

Then, he stopped.

And you saw him.

He wasn’t just wet. He was broken.

—What do you want me to say? —he murmured—. That they shouted things at me while pouring Gatorade on me? That they pushed me? That they laughed in my face? Is that what you want me to say?

Your heart jumped.

—Did they do that to you?

He laughed. Bitter. Brief.

—Of course. And you know what’s worst? That I deserve it.

—No! Don’t say that. You don’t deserve it!

—Yes, I deserve it —he repeated angrily—. Because I thought I could have this. That I could be with you without everyone reminding me how worthless I am because you… you had everything before me and now look at you. You’re alone. Your friends don’t talk to you anymore. Everyone looks at you weird, and all because you’re with me.

—And you think I care about that? —you said, your voice breaking.

—You shouldn’t care, but you do. Everyone does. And I… I can’t keep pretending it’s not destroying me. I can’t!

You stood still.

You just looked at him, your chest tight, desperation rising up your throat.

—Satoru… this isn’t about whether you can or can’t. We’re not supposed to end because of others. You can’t give up!

He was breathing hard. Clenching his fists. Shaking.

—Tell me this isn’t worth it. That what we have isn’t worth it. Tell me, and I’ll walk away. I swear.

He said nothing, just lowered his gaze.

You stepped closer. You touched his face with both hands and forced him to look at you.

—What we have is the best thing that’s ever happened to me —you whispered—. But we can’t keep going like this, letting everyone decide for us. We have to prove them wrong, that you’re not the joke they think you are. That you’re brilliant, and brave… and that I’m not with someone like you despite what they say. I’m with you for everything you are.

His eyes filled with tears, but none fell.

He just leaned into you. Rested his forehead on your shoulder.

—I don’t know how to do this anymore…

—Leave it to me —you whispered, closing your eyes—. This time, leave it to me.

And while he stayed silent, hugging you as if he was falling apart, you already knew.

You were going to fix this.

You didn’t know how yet, but you would, and the next time they saw him, no one would laugh at him anymore.

After that night, something inside you changed.

Not just because of what happened in the locker room, or the way Satoru broke down in front of you. It was the accumulation of everything. The pain in his voice, the sadness in his eyes, the things he said and the things he couldn’t say. The trembling in his hands when he tried to hug you or the way he lowered his head in the hallways. How he shrank as he walked, as if the whole world was determined to convince him he wasn’t worth it.

And you, who had always faced everything with your head held high, began to realize that this time, it wasn’t enough to just endure.

It wasn’t just about enduring the gossip or ignoring the comments. It was about him. About what they did to him when no one was looking, how they pushed him away from all the good things he had, how they made him believe that his love was a mistake.

That night, while he slept with tense eyelids and his arms around you as if he needed to feel protected even in his dreams, you stayed awake staring into the darkness without blinking. And you knew: you couldn’t stay silent anymore. Not if it meant watching him fade away little by little.

That’s why, when the official announcement of the school anniversary arrived, your decision was already made.

A lavish gala. A formal event. The kind of night everyone used to shine, but you would use it to show the world what you already knew for a long time — that he shone brighter than anyone.

The invitation envelopes arrived days later. Black, thick, with golden edges and embossed letters. The principal handed it to you in person, as always: the exemplary student, the perfect image. You took it with a polite smile, but inside, your mind was already elsewhere.

You weren’t thinking about your dress.

You were thinking about Satoru.

About how you would make him feel safe, about how you would make sure that, for one night, he could walk without fear, that he could feel seen. Not because of the rumors but because of who he really was.

And this time, you weren’t thinking about asking for his permission.

You mentioned it a few days later, when you were alone under the usual tree. He was flipping through his notebook, pretending to study, but you knew he hadn’t read a single line. The air was warm, the afternoon was gently fading. And when you spoke, you did it firmly.

—You’re coming with me.

He looked up, confused.

—To the gala?

You nodded.

—I want you there. With me.

Satoru closed the notebook without saying anything because he pressed his lips together. He took a moment before responding.

—I don’t want you to have a bad time because of me. You know how people are. They’ve already said too many things and at an event like this they’ll stare, they’ll talk, and I want to spare you from that.

—And you?

—Me?

—Are you going to avoid yourself?

His gaze wavered.

—It’s not that easy, you know… —he murmured—. Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do, I’ll always be the weird guy. The one who doesn’t fit in. The one nobody understands. I don’t want you to have to justify yourself because of me.

—I don’t have to justify anything. I’m just going to walk with you.

—But they’re going to look at you like…

—Like I’m crazy. I know. They already do.

He frowned, but you stopped him before he could speak.

—And I don’t care, because if they’re going to talk anyway, let them talk, but let them see you the way I see you. Even if it’s just for one night. I don’t want to hide you anymore.

There was a long silence. The wind blew through the trees. He looked at you again, and something in his expression changed as if, for the first time, the idea of showing himself wasn’t a threat but a possibility.

—Are you sure?

—I’m in love —you answered—. So yes.

And then, finally, he said yes.

From there, everything was preparation.

You went alone to find your dress because you didn’t want anyone’s opinions. You only knew it had to be blue. Midnight blue, like his eyes. You chose one made of soft satin, with a delicate neckline and an open back, flowing like a wave. You felt dazzling, as if no one could shine brighter than you.

You had it fitted with care, had your initials embroidered on the inner lining, and every time you tried it on, you wondered how he would react when he saw you.

Then, it was Satoru’s turn.

He didn’t want anything to do with suits. Said it wasn’t that serious.

But you didn’t give in.

You took him to a trusted tailor. They took his measurements. Showed him fabrics. He grumbled softly, said the jacket felt tight, that the collar was weird. But when he stepped out of the fitting room and saw how excited you were, he didn’t complain again.

The suit was black, with deep blue details. A fitted vest, white shirt, fine tie that you taught him to knot yourself.

And in the end, you convinced him to leave his glasses at home.

The night arrived with a clear sky.

The lights from the event gleamed from afar. The burgundy carpet stretched to the entrance of the grand hall. There was music, cameras, voices, and a constant parade of dresses, heels, expensive perfume, and anxious glances.

You arrived alone.

Hair down, bold makeup, confident steps.

You knew everyone would be looking at you, but you only wanted him to.

And when you finally saw him arrive… the world stopped for a second.

Satoru walked through the entrance in a flawless suit, white hair slicked back, and his eyes —his real eyes— uncovered. Blue. Deep. Painfully beautiful.

For the first time, everyone saw him. He wasn’t the nerd from the back of the classroom. He was the boy who had kept you awake a thousand nights, the one who had survived every cruel word, and the one who deserved the whole world.

You took his arm firmly, and he looked at you with a mix of awe and tenderness that took your breath away.

—You look beautiful —he whispered.

—You too.

You walked together through the flashes, through the stares, through the whispers. Some didn’t recognize him right away. Others did… and looked down.

Not because he was intimidating.

But because you loved him.

And that night, finally, the world knew it.

Inside the grand hall, the music floated like an elegant whisper. The lights were soft, golden, as if time had turned down the volume to let only the two of you speak. There were already people dancing, yes—shimmering dresses spinning in silence, crisp suits moving in rehearsed steps, couples holding hands like they knew exactly what to do.

You weren’t looking for perfection.

You were only looking for his hand.

And when you took it, you felt how his fingers trembled.

—Is something wrong? —you whispered as you walked between the tables.

Satoru glanced around, discomfort drawn in every gesture. His back was tense, and even though his suit fit him perfectly, it was as if he couldn’t feel comfortable in his own skin. He swallowed hard. Lowered his voice.

—They’re staring at us…

His words came out like a sigh, barely a whisper, as if he was still afraid to say it out loud.

You stopped.

You looked at him.

And then, you brought a hand to his cheek, so gently you almost didn’t touch him, as if his skin were made of glass and you feared the world might break him if you didn’t protect him.

—Let them stare —you whispered—. Let them learn.

Satoru looked down, but he couldn’t hide the small smile, barely curved, that escaped without meaning to.

You led him to the center of the hall.

The orchestra was playing a slow piece, almost old-fashioned, with violins and piano, as if the world had been preparing for that moment long before either of you arrived.

You placed his hands on your waist.

You rested yours on his shoulders.

And you began to move, slowly.

—I don’t know how to dance —he murmured, nervous.

—It doesn’t matter. Just follow my lead.

He laughed quietly.

—What if I step on your dress?

—Then I’ll step on yours. We’ll be a perfect mess.

You saw him lift his gaze and meet your eyes. This time, he didn’t look away, he just watched you slowly, tenderly, as if suddenly all the noise disappeared and only the two of you remained.

—You look beautiful —he whispered again—. So much that I still don’t understand how this is happening. I’m afraid it’s all a dream I’ll have to wake up from.

You moved closer, until your forehead touched his.

—This is not a dream —you said—. It’s our night. Only ours.

His hands trembled a little but he didn’t pull away. He held you like you gave him strength, as if your words could cover all the cracks left in his chest.

And you… you danced with him as if he were the only person who mattered. You looked at him with love. With pride. As if you couldn’t see anyone else. As if no one else existed.

With every turn, with every slow step, you felt how his body relaxed. How his fingers stopped clenching, how his shoulders stopped hunching, how his breathing became softer, freer. As if, finally, he believed he had the right to be there.

He didn’t say much.

But you understood everything.

Because in that dance, he wasn’t the one who had to learn the steps.

It was the world that had to learn to see him the way you did.

And that night, finally, they were.

The gala hall still echoed with music and laughter when you gently took his hand.

—Come with me —you whispered, barely brushing your fingers against his.

Satoru blinked, surprised.

—Where to?

—Just trust me.

He didn’t ask any more questions. He just looked at you, and seeing the certainty in your eyes, he nodded.

You walked down one of the school’s side hallways, where the noise of the event began to fade little by little. The carpet muffled your steps, the lights were softer, and the air smelled like a clean night. You moved without hurry, his hand intertwined with yours, until you reached the old building, the one few people used anymore. There, you climbed a small staircase, pushed open a door quietly, and led him to the secret place you had prepared.

It was an old greenhouse classroom, no longer used for lessons. You had cleaned it days before, and secretly decorated it for him.

The wooden floor barely creaked underfoot. Warm lights hung on the walls, small like fireflies. You had placed cushions over a blanket in the center of the room, with a low table adorned with a vase of white hydrangeas —your mother’s favorite, the ones that reminded you of peace—. In a corner, a portable radio played instrumental music at such a low volume it seemed to whisper. And right in front of the large window of the classroom, you had left the curtains open so the moon could come in fully.

Satoru stopped dead as soon as he crossed the door.

—What is this…?

—Our place —you whispered, letting go of his hand just to close the door behind you. —So no one could watch and so you could finally breathe.

He took a step to the center, turning slowly, his eyes wide open.

—You… did this?

—For you.

His lips parted. He walked over to the blanket, crouched down, and lightly touched one of the hanging lights with his fingertips. Then he looked at the vase, and then at you. His eyes were trembling.

—I don’t understand how someone like you… can want someone like me.

—Don’t start —you whispered, walking toward him—. Not tonight.

You sat beside him, very close, so close that his breath brushed your cheeks. He looked down, then back up again.

—Thank you —he said, barely audible—. For making me come… for not giving up… for making me feel that, for once… I belong to something.

His throat seemed to close up, you saw the tremble in his jaw, the way he pressed his lips together. Then, without warning, a tear rolled down his cheek.

Just one.

Silent.

Immense.

You leaned in without thinking, cupping his face in both hands and gently made him look at you.

—Love… don’t cry —you whispered tenderly, your thumb brushing softly over his skin—. Please, don’t cry.

Satoru swallowed hard. His eyes sparkled like never before.

—I just never… never thought I could feel something like this for someone —he murmured—. I didn’t think… this existed for me. That someone could truly see me. That someone would make me feel this way. Would hold me head-on. Defend me without fear. Give me a place.

His voice broke on that last word.

You leaned in closer, resting your forehead against his.

—That’s life —you told him—. Sometimes, the most beautiful things come when we least expect them. And you… you’ve deserved this for a long time. You just needed someone to remind you.

He closed his eyes. Another tear slid down. But this time, you caught it with a soft kiss on his cheek.

—Thank you —he whispered, eyes still shut—. For not letting go when I couldn’t hold on anymore.

—I’m never going to let you go.

—Really?

—Really.

Your hands moved from his face to his shoulders, then to his chest, and you hugged him. You hugged him like it was the only truth that mattered. He clung to you awkwardly, like he still didn’t quite know how to be held—but he did. He hugged you back, tightly. In silence.

And you stayed there.

For a long time.

Just the two of you. Just that place. Just the world slowing down so pain could turn into tenderness.

—Can I kiss you? —he asked suddenly, his voice rough, full of emotion.

—You don’t have to ask.

And he did.

He kissed you slowly.

With a beautiful tremble in his lips.

With everything he didn’t know how to say.

With everything he felt.

And you kissed him back just the same — eyes closed, letting yourself go, feeling him completely. When you pulled apart, just barely, his eyes searched for yours again.

—Are you really not going to leave?

—No, Satoru.

You smiled and brushed your nose against his.

—I’m here. And I’m staying.

And then he kissed you again.

And this time, there were no doubts.

Only love.

Only the two of you.

Epilogue — From the Cheerleader’s Eyes

Name: Aika Minami Role: Co-captain of the cheer team. She always admired you. Always followed you. And also... she was one of the first to judge you.

Aika remembered perfectly the day everything started. They were in the locker room after practice, the air thick with deodorant, perfume, sweat, and laughter. Someone —she didn’t know who, though she believed it was Ayane— quietly mentioned that you had been very busy on Thursdays lately.

Another girl said you’d been skipping the optional meetings. And then, between laughs disguised as surprise, someone dropped the name that everyone else repeated with a mix of disbelief and mockery: Gojo Satoru.

She was the one who lit the spark.

—Maybe he’s doing her homework —she said, tying her hair up in a high ponytail—. Or maybe it’s an experiment. You know, the popular girl and the nerd, like in those old movies.

Some laughed, others pretended not to hear, but everyone listened. Within days, the rumor had spread through the hallways. And even though none of them had seen it with their own eyes, they all swore they knew the truth. Aika was the one who shaped it, who painted the story that best fit the others’ curiosity.

At every lunch, every break between classes, she was the one dropping comments like poison.

–“She’s probably only with him out of pity.” –“If he were handsome, fine… but it’s that weird guy.” –“She’s going to ruin her image over a phase.”

What Aika never expected was that the weird guy could hold eye contact.

The day Satoru was attacked in the locker room, Aika already knew. She had heard one of the track guys, Ryusei, talking with the basketball group about “giving the nerd a little scare.” She didn’t say anything. She just raised an eyebrow and said with a casual tone:

—Don’t hurt him. Just let him know his place.

And then, it happened.

That day, the boys’ team had practiced in the main gym. Aika saw them laughing from the bleachers, like they already knew the show would start afterward. When Satoru headed toward the showers, just with his towel and his slightly loose glasses, everyone lowered their voices. But as soon as he walked in, the teasing began like stings one after another.

Aika wasn’t inside, but what she heard later —through comments disguised as jokes— was enough to imagine everything. Shampoo in his eyes, shoving, cruel words, his towel being ripped away, the silence of the others, a humiliation both quiet and public.

She had heard it all while applying lipstick in front of the bathroom mirror. One of the track girls was whispering the story to a teammate who had missed practice that day.

Aika just clicked her lipstick shut and went on with her day.

What she didn’t expect… was what happened afterward.

On the night of the school’s anniversary, Aika had been ready since six. Her red dress with thin straps, her hair straightened and shiny, her makeup flawless. She was excited. She knew she’d be the center of attention because even though you were still the leader, Aika had always felt almost just as important.

When she arrived at the main hall, she stopped for a moment to pose with two of her dance teammates. Everything was decorated with white lights, columns wrapped in golden threads, crystal flower arrangements, and dark velvet curtains. The entire atmosphere felt like something out of a gala film.

But the conversation, the mood, the background music—everything… changed in a matter of seconds.

She turned around, confused by what was happening. She saw heads turning. She heard whispers grow louder. Laughter caught in throats—and when she looked toward the entrance, something inside her chest tightened.

Not because of you.

Not because of your midnight-blue dress, or your hair styled in soft waves.

But because of him.

Satoru.

He no longer wore glasses.

His hair was pulled back, and his eyes, for the first time, were visible. His bluish pupils, his upright posture, his suit perfectly fitted to his body. He looked like a completely different person—not because of the physical change, but because of how he walked, how he looked at you, and how you took his arm without fear.

Aika’s mouth opened slightly. The punch glass in her hand trembled a little, and for the first time, she felt something inside her melt. It wasn’t guilt, it wasn’t anger. It was a pang of something deeper.

Jealousy.

She remembered the day you were chosen as captain, the times she had spoken badly about you behind your back, the times she repeated the rumors just to feel in control. She remembered how she had been happy when everyone started making fun of you.

And now, there they were.

He walked with steady steps.

You looked at him as if the whole world didn’t matter.

And no one, absolutely no one, could look away.

Aika didn’t move.

She didn’t speak.

She just stayed there, in the middle of the hall, surrounded by lights and music, watching everything she thought she had achieved crumble before her eyes.

Because that boy, the one who was once the target of her jokes, had conquered something she never could: courage.

And you… you were the center of attention by his side, something she always wanted to be.

Aika closed her eyes for a moment.

She no longer wanted to laugh.

She no longer wanted to comment.

It was something deeper, something she couldn’t reach no matter how hard she tried.

Aika Minami was not a friend, not even a fair rival.

She was poison disguised as a smile, a dark shadow that only existed to overshadow your light.

And that night, while everyone admired the perfect image you two made, Aika could only promise herself she would do everything possible to destroy that shine that bothered her so much.

Sorry for not being very active, I was busy writing this fic that I really liked. Also, I’ve been working on a Choso fic but I’m not sure if I should post it. Would you guys want to read it?

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